


Together (As God Intended)

by MoMoMomma



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: M/M, Religious Fanaticism, Rough Sex, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 04:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17676845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoMoMomma/pseuds/MoMoMomma
Summary: Once John Seed has an idea in his head no one in the world is going to convince him he's got it wrong. To be fair, though, Rook's not trying very hard.





	Together (As God Intended)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BipolarMolar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BipolarMolar/gifts).



> This was a generous commission that I enjoyed writing so much! I hope you all enjoy too!

Eventually, Rook is going to stop coming to in random places. And by eventually he means once all this bullshit is done and over with. When the cult is long gone and Hope County isn’t one crazy happenstance after another. 

For the moment, he needs to figure out where he is. It’s underground, he thinks, going by the strange echo that he can sometimes hear in the Wolf’s Den when he’s visiting. But it’s a hell of a lot bigger, a staircase past a metal fence on his right. He’s alone, which has him instantly testing the strength of his bonds, tugging at the rope that’s tying his arms and legs to the chair.

It doesn’t give but he’s not surprised. Eden’s Gate never seems to want to make his life easy. Can’t have nice things with those assholes running around.

Rook in the middle of looking around for something to cut the ties with--which forces him to stare at the stomach-droppingly human forms wrapped in latex and suspended along the wall to his left--when he hears footsteps. Approaching at a leisurely pace, like whoever it is has all the time in the world to get to him.

“Deputy Wylde! I’m so pleased we can finally have a moment to ourselves.”

Shit. Of fucking course.

John saunters into view, up the stairs, long legs carrying him at a lazy pace into the room as he looks Rook up and down. Rook freezes, tries very hard to look like he hasn’t been trying to escape since the very second he regained consciousness. 

Even paints a smile of his own on his face because...acting. Sell the part.

“How are you feeling?” John stops a short distance in front of him, hands on his hips, head cocked with that same stupid smarmy grin on his handsome face. “I certainly hope my Chosen weren’t too rough with you. I’d ordered them to be gentle but...ah. You’ve become a bit of a contentious thing for them to deal with.”

Yeah, Rook can tell. The various bruises and aches aren’t exactly hinting that John’s orders were followed very well. 

“They could’ve been a bit nicer.” He allows, John frowning immediately. “Bit sore. You might wanna let me up so I can stretch out the aches.”

John laughs, about what Rook expected, and he tries to think of anything else so his mind doesn’t linger on how nice it is. He’s never minded John’s voice, even when he’s spouting his bullshit. Lightly accented, just enough to have the twang that tends to put people at ease. More a purr than anything else when he’s whispering threats through the radio as Rook runs around wrecking all his shit. 

Honestly, he thought John might start screaming at him eventually. Just because Rook, for no reason whatsoever, none at all, tends to spend a bit more time in his region than the others. Well, maybe for some reasons. Because he doesn’t like the Bliss and the Judges fucking terrify him.

Yeah. That’s what he’ll tell himself. 

“And ruin all our fun? When we finally have a moment to ourselves?” John shakes his head, crosses his arms. “Absolutely not.”

“I promise I won’t hurt you.” Rook tries, sighing when John simply arches a brow. “Alright, yeah, fair. If you let me up, I’m gonna knock your ass out and go looking for Hudson.”

“Deputy _Hudson_ ,” John’s voice goes icy cold, face flattening out into something just a bit evil, “will not be joining us. You needn’t concern yourself with her.”

“I’m going to get her out of here. Away from you.”

“If you’re so intent, we could make a deal?” John steps closer, arms unfolding, hands curving over Rook’s wrists and the rope tying them down. “I do tend to enjoy a deal that ends in my favor.”

“What sort of deal?” Rook asks slowly, all while his mind screams it’s just like making a deal with the devil.

Except going by the way John’s eyes keep darting down, sweeping over his body, he’s pretty sure it’s not his soul that’s on the line here.

“You don’t understand your purpose here. Your purpose in Hope County or your purpose with the Project. You let me explain, you _accept_ it? And I will let Deputy Hudson walk free. Unscathed.” John snorts, rolls his eyes in a careless way that makes Rook want to punch the expression off his face. “Well, mostly unscathed. Mental wounds are such troublesome things.”

“My purpose is to blow up as much of your shit as I can before something eventually kills me.”

“You’re _wrong_.” John hisses, leaning in so close Rook’s forced to tip his head back or risk his nose getting smashed. “After all this, everything we’ve done, you still don’t _understand_.”

“Explain it then.”

He’s got to keep John talking. John talking is a John that needs an audience. A John that’s putting on a show. Not a John that’s trying to drown him in ice-cold Bliss water or using some of the terrifying looking instruments laying on the table to his right. 

“You are mine. You are _supposed_ to be _mine_.” John pushes away, a scowl twisting his features. “And yet. Yet you _persist_ in denying what God has fated. You persist in running from your fate. From _me_.”

Not very well, though. Clearly.

And, on a much more pressing note, what the fuck?

“You think God wants me to--what? Fall in love with you?” Rook has to laugh but it sounds a bit manic, rough like the thoughts tearing through his brain at Mach 5. “John, you tried to fucking _drown_ me.”

“I wouldn’t have!”

“Because Joseph stopped you!”

“It was going to be _perfect_!” John snaps, snarls, lunging for him again, hands fisting up Rook’s shirt this time. “I had a _plan_. You were going to see the light, the Bliss was going to make you _see_. I wasn’t the first thing you saw coming out of the Bliss and I had to _fix_ that. I wouldn’t have--”

It’s like a page gets flipped. Rook watches the madness drain out of John’s face, leaving nothing behind but a softness to his eyes and his lips as he lets go of Rook’s shirt to pet hands over his chest. His voice even changes, nothing like the guttural mania, a lover’s whisper pitched just desperate enough it sounds like he’s going to choke on the words.

“I wouldn’t have _actually_ drowned you. Or hurt you, not really. A little pain, but there’s nothing in this world earned without pain. Just enough to make you see.” John flicks his eyes up, meets Rook’s gaze. “And you see, don’t you? You see how good we could be, how good we _will_ be. Together.”

Oh. 

Fuck.

This isn’t something Rook’s ever been trained for. He can fix a collapsing lung under gunfire. He can arrest a drunken husband with the full knowledge his wife is going to leap at him the second the cuffs come out. He can go to work and operate on three hours of sleep and a hangover.

He can do lots of things. He’s effective. But none of his classes or training covered what to do when a fanatical cult leader is standing in front of you and telling you that you’re “meant to be together.”

Whatever the fuck that means. Which Rook will not find out because he will _not_ be asking. 

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is.” John slides his hands up, cups Rook’s jaw, his cheeks, long fingers spread wide. “I can show you. You have to let me show you how good we could be.”

Oh, that tone is dangerous. That’s syrup sweet on John’s tongue, so thick it might just drip from his lips. That’s coercive and persuasive and Rook is going to get hard in about six seconds if he doesn’t shut up. 

“The Project doesn’t allow--”

“Lust is a _sin_.” John’s fingers dig in like he’s offended at the very notion of what Rook was going to point out. “But love, the sort of love we have...it is not. We are not sinful for wanting one another. We are ordained to be as one, to live and love as _one_.”

He takes a shaky breath and there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes now. Like a dog that’s coaxed someone to get within distance so they can get their teeth into flesh and bone. 

“He will not smite us for enjoying what He has seen fit to give.”

John moves so fast Rook almost loses him. Almost loses track because he’s not sure this isn’t some weird wet dream after too many beers at the Spread Eagle. He darts to the table, returns bouncing a knife in his hand with a deadly sort of giddiness.

“Let me show you.”

Rook should hit him. Should swing the second John slides the knife under the ropes, careful but not enough, nicking the skin of his wrist. He doesn’t. He can’t. He’s not sure what the hell is happening but John cuts his bonds away like they’re made of floss instead of heavy-duty rope. Drops the knife--steps onto it because he’s not an idiot, no matter what people like to say--and all but hauls Rook to his feet by his shirt.

The full body contact is a shock. Enough that Rook grabs for his shoulders, tries to avoid taking them both down. John seems bolstered by the touch, by Rook grabbing him just as tightly as he’s being grabbed, and yanks him in closer still.

Until they’re sharing the same air. Until Rook’s inhaling John’s breath, lips parting to allow for the thrust of John’s tongue. It’s hungry, _starved_ , John taking and taking until Rook’s gasping between the occasional partings John seems content to allow him so he doesn’t pass out. 

Fuck. What the fuck? 

John moans into the kiss when he presses closer, slides one leg in between Rook’s thighs and presses _up_. Right into the ridge of his cock because it’s very hard to not _get_ hard when he’s kissing someone for the first time in forever. When his hands are wandering over a slim waist and down to hips just big enough for him to get his hands around. When his body is so desperate for a touch that isn’t violent, isn’t vicious, that he’s pulling John in when he should be pushing him away.

“I’m going to pour your sins out of you,” John promises, hands around his neck, thumbs pressed into the pounding heartbeat on either side. “And I am going to put mine inside you. And we will be _perfect_ because we will be together. No pain, no suffering. Just ecstasy. _Together_.”

Rook opens his mouth to ask what the fuck that’s supposed to mean--not that he can’t take a really good guess because John’s grinding his cock into Rook’s hip like it’s supposed to put a neat period at the end of his declaration--but John doesn't allow it. Doesn’t let him say a word, just presses in and licks them off his tongue.

“I’ll be gentle.” He promises softly, against Rook’s mouth, before Rook’s being hauled around once more.

Dragged over to some of those stupid white Eden’s Gate crates that he’s been blowing up all over John’s region. John’s hands are needy, never letting go, pushing and shoving at him until Rook’s chest is pressed into the wood and he’s scratching at the lid. 

Huh. He never considered that these things were about the right size to bend someone over. Not that he really had _cause_ to.

Rook tries to imagine it’s just a happy accident. But he doesn’t have to try very hard because his brain goes back into panic mode when John leans down over him, blankets him with the warmth of his body and the possessive need of his hands. 

“You don’t have a bed?” Rook grouses when John’s hands become pointed, searching, sliding around to the front of his hips and all but tearing at the closure of his jeans.

“We will have a bed. I’ve built my house knowing you will join me there. You’re going to love it. But I need--I can’t--” John presses his forehead to Rook’s nape, blows out a shuddering sort of breath over the skin. “Just this once. Later we can--however you want it. But for this time, for now--”

“Alright.” Rook agrees quietly, because John’s _shaking_ , a fine tremor that’s making his own legs tremble with how close they’re pressed. “Alright, John. Just for now.”

John’s moan is _broken_. Shattered like spider webs of glass, like it got ripped out of him so hard it smashed whatever was left of his resolve. He jerks Rook’s pants down, nearly ripping his briefs when they catch, and Rook hisses when his cock is unceremoniously exposed to the chilled air of the bunker. John murmurs something, maybe an apology, nails raking up Rook’s thighs and over his hips, down over the curve of his ass.

Like John has to put marks on him somehow. Like he’s not content with just this. Like he intends for Rook’s sins to spill out in more than one way.

The lube is a relief. Rook was concerned--John’s almost gone, whispering under his breath, promises and sweet words and _threats_ that aren’t phrased like threats. He’d been prepared for a brutal experience. But John slides a finger inside, gentle and coaxing, like he’s done this a million times.

And maybe he has. Rook’s heard rumors. Maybe not all rumors are just mud-slinging by aggravated townsfolk. 

“I can’t be gentle. _This_ cannot be gentle.” John says, like he’s trying to warn Rook, just as he adds another finger. 

Too fast. Reminiscent of teenage fumblings when care was forsaken for speed.

“There is no Atonement without pain.”

“You can’t hurt me, John,” Rook says softly, because the words, and John’s tone, are more than a little concerning. “You’re supposed to be mine. And I’m supposed to be yours, right? You don’t hurt the people you love.”

John pauses with his fingers buried inside Rook, frozen behind him, a sudden statue that feels strange and out of place in the space that once contained a trembling mass of need. He leans down low, sinks his fingers in and stretches them, but it’s gentler. Slower. A more experienced lover putting said experience to use.

“Do you love me, Rook?”

That fucking voice. Rook is beginning to understand how John Seed talked half the county into complacency while walking off with their stuff.

“I’m supposed to, right?” Rook chooses to ignore how the last word has a breathy note of a shock, John’s fingers glancing off his prostate with just enough pressure it makes stars shine in the corners of his vision. “That’s what God said?”

“God said we should be together. Joseph said I should love you.” John presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, there and gone and heavy with the words. “No one ever promised you would love me. I thought I had to earn it, had to--”

There’s an unhinged sort of laugh and John is three fingers deep now, stretching him open until Rook’s inhales are shaky and his exhales are explosive. 

“You are _mine_.”

“You don’t hurt things that are yours.”

Rook has to drive this point home because John is fucking him open on his fingers and Rook’s dripping onto the concrete bunker floor and he isn’t really in any position to fight if John doesn’t agree. All he has is hope that John will see the truth of it, that he’s not so far gone in this fantasy that reason is past the horizon and sunk like the setting sun. 

“I am not here to take your life.” John drags his fingers out, so achingly slow Rook’s breath hisses through clenched teeth. “I am here...to give it to you.”

The jangle of a belt buckle tells Rook it’s now or never. He has to do this, has to allow this to happen, or he needs to stop it. He’s too wound up, too tense and tight, cock so hard between his legs it _aches_. If John gets inside him, he’s going to get the “yes” he’s been after for a while now.

Probably repeatedly. Probably in the forms of moans and gasps and whines.

But he’s not moving. Not throwing John off him and pulling up his pants while sprinting for the stairs. Rook’s still laying on the box, flushed cheek pressed to the cool wood, nails catching and scratching as John brushes the thick head against where’s he’s slick and overly hot.

He’ll consider the implications of what that means when it doesn’t feel like John’s sliding into his fucking _throat_.

“Oh fuck, you’re big.” It slips out before he can catch it, bite it back. On a groan split with a sigh as everything goes tense and relaxes under the mindless petting of John’s hands over his sides. 

“I’ve been made perfect for you.”

Rook isn’t touching that sentence, or sentiment, with a ten-foot pole. Not that he could, at the moment, considering it feels like just that is being gently thrust home with almost lazy rolls of John’s hips. He’s anchored his hands on Rook’s hips, tugging him back into the movement, and it’s shaking loose a whimper every few thrusts or so.

Goddamnit. John’s not even actively fucking his brains out and this is still the best sex Rook’s had in...more years than he’s willing to admit. It’s doing stupid things to his brain, making him believe some of the bullshit John’s spouting.

He grits his teeth, arches his back into the next thrust, and it breaks something loose inside John. Like all he was waiting for was a yes, verbal or not. Permission to be everything that he is, all the dark and gritty parts exposed now that he has what he’s supposed to have.

John is _rough_. Not unkind, not brutal, but rough. Digging fingertip sized bruises into Rook’s hips and slamming into him so hard it sends the head of his cock bashing into the crate. Rook whines, winces, slides a hand down to grip his cock so it’s not taking a beat as John does his best to fuck his way into the very soul of him.

Which is a mistake. Because his cock throbs in his hand, the slide of his hand down the shaft almost instinctive. It ratchets everything tighter, higher, until Rook’s rocking between John’s thrusts and the clasp of his fingers. 

“Next time,” John promises, swears with teeth against his neck, “I’m going to do it better. Going to lay you down and split you open in bed. Spread you so wide you can’t hide anything from me. I’m going to _carve_ a space for me inside of you, one you can never fill with anything else. And you’re going to dream of and ache for my touch like I’ve dreamt and ached for yours.”

“I’m going to come,” Rook warns him, because there’s a ball of tension coiling in his stomach and also because he’s not going to respond to that sentence in any real way.

He’s too afraid the answer will be the enthusiastic _yes_ John wants so badly. 

The same yes that John breathes out over his skin. Kisses into the flesh. The hissed affirmation as his thrusts become off-tempo, more need than skill, shoving Rook forwards and dragging him back until he just holds his hand still and lets John fuck his cock into his fist. It doesn’t take long, vision going too bright, sharp in ways that are right and wrong, and the buzz in his ears crashes like waves. 

Rook makes sure he says John’s name when he comes. Because he’s terrified of what else he would say in its stead.

John comes when he’s still shaking his way through the aftermath, come dripping off his knuckles, puddled between his boots. Grinds close and shakes apart, telling Rook how perfect he is, how perfect this is, how much he loves him.

How amazing they’ll be together. 

Rook doesn’t respond. Doesn’t bother with it because John’s too far gone to understand, slurring hopes and dreams and prayers into his shoulderblade. He stares at the stairs, at the chance he had to run that he let go in favor of a kind touch and the words of a madman who sounded far too sane.

What now? What does he do when he’s already sold his soul to the devil? 

There’s nothing left to do now except step into the flames and hope he survives the inferno.


End file.
